Arthur Ripley, as I have said, meant to be a lawyer. He was full of
enthusiasm for his future profession, and never tired of talking about
it. In his room at home he had three or four big law-books, bound in
yellow calf-skin, which he used to read for his pleasure, just as we
other boys would read our story-books; and he seemed to know their
contents by heart. At least, we gave him the credit for knowing them
by heart. He passed among us for little less than a Solomon of legal
wisdom. His opinion upon a legal question had, to our thinking, the
authority of a judgment from the bench; and if one of our number had
got into a legal difficulty of any sort, I am sure he would have gone to
Ripley for aid and counsel as readily and as confidently as to the most
eminent jurist at the bar.
This being premised, you will easily understand the impression made upon
me by the following conversation which I had with Ripley one day in the
early summer of 1875.
We had just passed our examinations for promotion from the Introductory
to the Freshman class at college, and our consequent vacation had just
begun. I was minding the shop, while Messrs. Flisch and Finkelstein
smoked their cigars and played their pinochle in the back room, and
Ripley was keeping me company. We had been talking about my grandmother;
and presently Ripley queried: “Look here, Greg, she was a woman of some
property, wasn't she? I mean to say she lived in good style, had plenty
of money, was comfortable and well-to-do, hey?”
“Why, yes,” I answered, “she was pretty well-off--why, about as well as
anybody in Norwich Town, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Because--what I should like to know is, why didn't she leave anything
to you?”
“Why, how could she? I was only her grandchild. My Uncle Peter was her
son. Don't you see?”
“But that doesn't make any difference. Your father being dead, you were,
equally with your uncle, her legal heir and next-of-kin. And as long as
she was so fond of you, it seems kind of funny she didn't provide for
you in any way.”
“What do you mean by her legal heir and next-of-kin?”
“Don't you know that? Why, a legal heir and next-of-kin is a person
entitled to take under the statutes of descent and distribution. For
instance, if your grandmother had died intestate, you would have come in
for half of all the property she left, your Uncle Peter taking the other
half. See the point?”
“Can't say I do. You're too high-up for me, with your legal slang. What
does intestate mean?”
“Why, intestate--why, that means without having made a will. When a
person dies without leaving a will, he is said to have died intestate.”
“Well, I guess my grandmother died intestate, then. I don't believe she
left any will.”
“She didn't? Why, if she didn't leave a will--Oh! but she must have.
Look here, Greg, this is serious. Are you sure she didn't?”
“O, no! of course I'm not sure. I never thought of the matter before,
and so I can't be sure. But I don't believe she did.”
“But, Greg, if she didn't--if she didn't leave a will, disinheriting
you, and bequeathing everything to Peter--man alive, what are you doing
here in old Finkelstein's jewelry shop? Why, Greg, you're rich. You're
absolute owner of half of her estate.”
“O, no! I'm perfectly sure she never did that. If she made any will at
all, she didn't disinherit me, and give everything to Uncle Peter. She
cared a great deal more for me than she did for Uncle Peter. I'm sure
she never made a will favoring him above me. I always supposed that
she had died, as you call it, intestate; and so, he being her son, the
property had descended to him in the regular course of events.”
“But don't I tell you that it wouldn't have descended to him? It would
have descended to both of you in equal shares. Here's the whole business
in a nut-shell: either she did leave a will, cutting you off with a
shilling; or else you're entitled to fifty cents in every dollar that
she owned.”
“But I have never received a penny. If what you say is true, how do you
account for that?”
“There's just the point. If your idea about the will is correct, your
Uncle Peter must be a pretty rogue indeed. He's been playing a sharp
game, Greg, and cheating you out of your rights. And we can make it hot
enough for him, I tell you. We can compel him to divide up; and inside
of a month you'll be rolling in wealth.”
“Oh! come, Rip,” I protested, “fen fooling a fellow about a thing like
this.”
“But I'm not fooling. I never was more in earnest in all my life. It's
as plain as the nose on your face. There are no two ways about it. Ask
anybody.”
“But--but then--but then I'm rich--rich!”
“That's what you are, unless, by a properly executed will, your
grandmother disinherited you.”
“But I tell you I know she never did that. It stands to reason that she
didn't.”
“Well, sir, then it only remains for you to claim your rights at the
hands of your amiable uncle, and to open a bank account.”
“O my goodness! O, Rip! Oh! it's impossible. It's too--too glorious to
be true,” I cried, as a realizing sense of my position rushed upon
me. My heart was pounding like a hammer against my ribs; my breath was
coming short and swift; my brain was in a whirl. I felt dazzled and
bewildered; and yet I felt a wondrous, thrilling joy, a great glow of
exultation, that sent me dancing around the shop like a maniac, wringing
my hands in self-congratulation.
I was rich! Only think, I was rich! I could take my proper station
now, and cut my proper figure in the world. Good-by, patched trousers,
good-by, shop, good-by all such low, humiliating things. Welcome
opulence, position, purple and fine linen. Hurrah! I would engage a
passage upon the very first, the very fastest steamer, and sail away to
that brilliant, courtly country where my Uncle Florimond, resplendent in
the trappings of nobility, awaited me with open arms, there to live in
the state and fashion that would become the nephew of a marquis. I would
burn my plebeian ships behind me. I would do this, that, and the other
wonderful thing. I saw it all in a single radiant glance.
But what you see more plainly than anything else, I did not see at all.
I did not see that I was accepting my good fortune in an altogether
wrong and selfish spirit. I did not see that my first thought in my
prosperity ought to have been for those who had stood by me in my
adversity. I did not see that my first impulse ought to have been now to
make up in some wise to my friend and benefactor, Mr. Finkelstein,
for his great goodness and kindness to me. I did not see that I was an
arrant little snob, an ungrateful little coxcomb. A mixture of false
shame and evil pride had puffed me up like so much inflammable gas,
which--Ripley having unwittingly applied the spark to it--had now burst
into flame.
“O, Rip!” I cried again, “it's too glorious to be true.”
“Well, now,” cut in Ripley, “let's be practical. What you want to do is
step into your kingdom. Well, to-day's Saturday, isn't it? Well, now, I
propose that day after to-morrow, Monday, you and I go to Norwich. There
we can make a search in the Probate Office, and find out for certain
just how the facts stand. Then we can come back here and put the case
in the hands of my father, who's a lawyer, and who will have a guardian
appointed for you, and do everything else that's necessary. See? Now,
the question is, Will you go to Norwich with me Monday night?”
“Won't I, though!” was my response.
And then Rip and I just sat there in the shop, and talked, and talked,
and talked, planning out my life for the future, and wondering exactly
how rich I was going to be. We surmised that my grandmother could not
possibly have left less than a hundred thousand dollars, in which event
I should come in for a cool fifty thousand. We employed the strongest
language at our command to stigmatize my Uncle Peter's rascality in
having for so long a time kept me out of my just rights; and we gloated
in imagination over his chagrin and his discomfiture when we should
compel him to render an account of his stewardship and to disgorge my
portion of our inheritance. I declared it as my intention to go to my
Uncle Florimond in Paris as soon as the affair was finally settled;
and Ripley agreed that that would be the appropriate thing for me to
do--“Though, of course,” he added, “I shall feel awfully cut up at our
separation. Still, it's undoubtedly the thing for you to do. It's what
I would do if I were in your place. And, O, Scottie! Greg, won't old
Finkelstein and your other Hebrew friends open their eyes?”
“Won't they, though!” I returned, reveling in fancy over their
astonishment and their increased respect for me, after I should have
explained to them my sudden and tremendous rise in the world. But in
this particular I was destined to disappointment; for when, as soon
as Ripley had gone home, I joined Mr. Finkelstein in the parlor, and
conveyed to him the joyful information, he, having heard me through
without any sign of especial wonder, remarked:--
“Vail, Kraikory, I suppose you vant me to conkraitulate you, hey? Vail,
it's a graind ting to be rich, Kraikory, and no mistake about it. And I
shust tell you dis, Kraikory: dere ain't nobody in de United States of
America vould be glaidder if ainy goot luck haippened to you, as I vould
be. I'm awful fond of you, Kraikory, and dere ain't nodings what I vant
more as to see you haippy and prosperous. De only trouble is, Kraikory,
dot I ain't so sure as dis vould be such awful goot luck, aifter all.
For, to tell you de honest troot, Kraikory, I don't like de vay you
take it. No, I aictually don't. You're too stuck-up and prout about it,
Kraikory; and I hate to see you stuck-up and prout. It ain't nice to be
prout, Kraikory; it ain't what you call manly; and I simply hate to see
you do ainydings what ain't nice and manly--I'm so fond of you, don't
you understand? Den, ainyhow, Kraik-ory, de Bible says dot prite goes
before destruction, and a howty spirit before a fall; and dot's a solemn
faict, Kraikory; dey do, shust as sure as you're alife. De Bible's shust
exaictly right, Kraikory; you can bet ten tousand tollars on it. Why, I
myself, I seen hundreds of fellers get stuck-up and prout already;
and den de first ting dey knew, dey bust all to pieces like a
goot-for-nodings boiler. Yes, siree, if I was as prout as you are,
Kraikory, I'd feel afraid.
“No, Kraikory, I don't like de vay you take it, and I really tink if you
get dis money what you're talking about, I really tink it'll spoil you,
Kraikory; and dot's why I cain't conkraitulate you de vay you vant me
to. You ain't been like yourself for a pretty long while now already,
Kraikory. I ain't said nodings about it; but I seen it all de same;
and Solly seen it, and Heddie, she seen it, and Mr. Flisch seen it, and
Henrietta seen it, and we all seen it, and we all felt simply fearful
about it. And now I tink it shust needs dis money to spoil you
altogedder. I hate to say ainydings to hurt your feelings, Kraikory,
but dot's my honest opinion; and me and you, we'd oughter be goot enough
friends to talk right out to each udder like fader and son. De faict is,
Kraikory, I've loafed you shust exaictly de same as if we was fader
and son; and dot's de reason it makes me feel so awful to see you get
stuck-up and prout. But you was a goot boy down deep, Kraikory, and I
guess you'll turn out all right in de end, if dis here money don't spoil
you. You got a little foolishness about you, which is necheral to your
age. When I was your age I was a big fool, too.
“Vail, and so, shust as soon as de maitter's settled, you're going to
Europe, are you, to live mit your Uncle Florimond in Pairis? Vail, dot's
all right, Kraikory, if you like to do it. I ain't got no pusiness to
make ainy obshections, dot's sure. All I got to say, Kraikory, is dis:
Your Unde Florimond, he may be an awful fine feller, and I guess likely
he is; but I don't know as he's aifer done much of ainydings for you;
and if I was in your place, I'd feel sorter sorry to stop my education,
and leaf de old friends what I was certain of, and go to a new friend
what I hadn't naifer tried; dot's all. Vail, if you vant to go, I
suppose you'll go; and Solly and me and Henrietta and dot little kirl
ofer by Mr. Flisch, vail, we'll have to get along mitout you de best vay
we can. I guess dot little Rosie, I guess she'll feel pretty baid about
it, Kraikory; but I don't suppose dot'l make much difference to you,
to shush by de vay you talk. Poor little ting! She's awful fond of you,
Kraikory, and I guess she'll feel pretty lonesome aifter you've gone
avay. Oh! vail, I suppose she von't die of it. Dere are plenty udder
young fellers in dis vorld, and I don't suppose she'll cry herself to
dead for you. All de same, I guess she'll feel pretty baid first off;
but dot's your business, and not mine.
“Vail, let me see. To-day's Saturday; and you're going to Nawvich Monday
night. Vail, dot's all right. I ain't got nodings to say against dot. I
shust give you vun little piece of advice, dough, Kraikory, and dot is
dis: If I was in your place, I vouldn't feel too awful sure of dis
here money, until I'd aictually got hold of it, for fear I might be
disappointed. Dere's a proverp which goes, 'Dere's a great mainy slips
between de cup and de lips,' Kraikory; and dot's a solemn faict, which I
advice you to remember.”
This sermon of Mr. Finkelstein's made me feel very sore indeed; but I
felt sorer still next day, when Rosalind--whom I was calling upon, and
to whom I had just communicated the momentous news--when Rosalind, with
flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, assailed me thus:--
[Illustration: 0159]
“O, Gregory Brace! Oh! shame on you. Oh! I don't know you. I can't
believe it's you. I can't believe it's the same boy at all. Such
selfishness! Such ingratitude! Such a proud hard heart! It's been as
much as anyone could do to put up with you for ever and ever so long,
you've been so vain and so conceited and everything; but this just caps
the climax. Oh! think of poor Mr. Finkelstein. He's been so good and
generous to you, and so fond of you; and he's sent you to school and
college, and given you every advantage he possibly could; and you owe
him so much, and you're under such great obligations to him, for he took
you right out of the streets, and gave you a home, and made a son of
you, instead of a servant--yes, he did--and now the very first thing
that you propose to do, as soon as you're able to, is to leave him, to
abandon him--oh! you ungrateful thing--and go to your horrid old French
uncle, who, I don't believe cares the snap of his finger for you. He is
horrid, too; and I hope he'll just treat you horribly, just to punish
you. And I hope that Arthur Ripley is mistaken, and that you won't get a
single penny from your Uncle Peter, but just a good whipping to take you
down; and I hope you'll have to come back to Mr. Finkelstein, and humbly
beg his pardon; yes, I do, with all my heart and soul. I'd just like to
see you have to come down from your high horse and eat humble pie for
a while; yes, I would. The idea! Desert Mr. Finkelstein! You, who might
have been begging in the streets, except for him! I should think you'd
be ashamed to look me in the face. Oh! you mean to give him a good round
sum of money, do you, to pay him for what he's done for you? Why, how
very liberal and noble you are, to be sure! As though money could pay
for what Mr. Finkelstein has done for you! As though money were what he
wants from you, and not love and affection! O, Gregory! you've changed
so that I don't know you, and I don't like you at all any more, and I
don't care to be friends with you any more, and you needn't come to see
me any more. There!”
Yes, I felt very sore and very angry. What Rosalind said only served to
exasperate and embitter me, and to make me grit my teeth, and pursue all
the more doggedly my own selfish purpose.
Well, on Monday night, according to our agreement, Ripley and I set
out for Norwich, passengers aboard the very same steamboat, the City of
Lawrence, that I had come to New York by, three years before; and bright
and early Tuesday morning we reached our destination.
I only wish I could spare a page to tell you something of the emotions
that I felt as we came in sight of the dingy old town. It had not
changed the least bit in the world; it was like the face of an old
familiar friend; it called up before me my own self of former years; it
brought a thousand memories surging upon me, and filled my heart with a
strong, unutterable melancholy, that was yet somehow indescribably sweet
and tender.
But Ripley and I had no time for the indulgence of sentiment. “Now,
then, where's the Court House? Where's the Probate Office?” he demanded
as soon as we had set foot upon the dry land. “We must pitch right in,
without losing a moment.”
So I led him to the Probate Court; and there he “pitched right in”
with a vengeance, examining the indices to lots of big written books of
records, while I stood by to hand them to him, and to put them back in
their places when he had finished with them--until, after an hour or so,
he announced, “Well, Greg, you're right. She left no will.”
Then he continued: “Now we must find out the date upon which Peter
took out his Letters of Administration, and also whether he had himself
constituted your guardian, as he most likely did; and then we'll
have all the facts we need to establish your claims, and put you in
possession.”
Thereupon he attacked another set of big written volumes, and with these
he was busy as long as two hours more. In the end, “By Jingo, Greg,”
he cried, “here's a state of things! He didn't take out any Letters of
Administration at all.”
“Well,” I queried, not understanding the meaning of this circumstance,
“what of that? What does that signify?”
“Why, that signifies an even darker and more systematic piece of fraud
than I had suspected. In order to cheat you out of your share, he failed
to comply with the law. He didn't go through the proper formalities to
get control of her property, but simply took possession of it without
authority. And now we've got him completely at our mercy. We could
prosecute him criminally, if we liked. We could send him to State
Prison. Oh! won't we make him hop? I say, Greg, do you want to have some
fun?”
“How? What way?”
“Well, sir, if you want to have some fun, I'll tell you what let's do.
Let's go call on your Uncle Peter, and confront him with this little
piece of villainy, and politely ask him to explain it: and then see him
squirm. It'll sort of square accounts with him for the number of times
he's given you a flogging.”
“O, no! I--I guess we'd better not,” I demurred, faltering at the
prospect of a personal encounter with my redoubtable relative.
“But, man alive, you have nothing to fear. We've got the whip-hand of
him. Just think, we can threaten him with criminal prosecution. Oh! come
on. It'll be the jolliest kind of a lark.”
Well, I allowed myself to be persuaded; and we set forth for Uncle
Peter's office, Ripley all agog for excitement, and I trying not to
appear afraid. But Uncle Peter wasn't in. An oldish man, who seemed
to be in charge, informed us that the Jedge had got a touch of the
rheumatiz, and was stayin' hum.
“Never mind,” said Ripley to me; “we'll visit him at his home, we'll
beard him in his den. Come along!”
I tried to beg off, but Rip insisted; and I weakly gave in.
If I had been stirred by strong emotions at the sight of Norwich City,
conceive how much more deeply I was stirred when we reached Norwich
Town--when I saw our old house peeping out from among the great
elm-trees that embosomed it--when I actually stood upon its doorstep,
with my hand upon the old brass knocker! A strange servant girl opened
the door, and to my request to see Judge Brace, replied, “The Jedge is
sick in his room.”
“That doesn't matter,” I explained. “You know, I am his nephew. Tell him
his nephew Gregory wants to see him.” And I marched boldly through the
hall--where the same tall eight-day clock, with its silver face that
showed the phases of the moon, was ticking just as it had used to tick
as long ago as I could remember--and into the parlor, Ripley following.
I say I marched in boldly, yet I was really frightened half to death,
as the moment of a face-to-face meeting with my terrible uncle became so
imminent. There in the parlor stood the piano upon which my grandmother
had labored so patiently to teach me to play. There hung the oil
portrait of her, in her robe of cream-colored silk, taken when she was
a beautiful young girl, and there, opposite it, above the fireplace, the
companion-picture of my Uncle Florimond, in his lieutenant's uniform,
with his sword and his crimson sash. Ripley started back a little when
he saw this painting, and cried, “For mercy's sake, Greg, who is it?
I never saw anything like it. The same eyes, nose, mouth, chin,
everything. It's you all over”--thus confirming what my grandmother used
to tell me: “Gregory, thou art his living image.” The room was haunted
by a myriad dear associations. I forgot the errand that had brought
me there; I forgot my fear of meeting Uncle Peter; I forgot all of the
recent past, and was carried back to the happiest days of my childhood;
and my heart just swelled, and thrilled, and ached. But next instant
it gave a great spasmodic leap, and stood still for a second, and then
began to gallop ahead like mad, while a perspiration broke out over my
forehead; for the maid-servant entered, and said “Please walk upstairs
to the Jedge's room.” I really thought I should faint. It was as much as
I could do to get my breath. My knees knocked together. My hands shook
like those of an aged palsy-stricken man. However, there was no such
thing as backing out at this late date; so I screwed my courage to the
sticking place, and led Ripley upstairs to Uncle Peter's room.
Uncle Peter was seated in an arm-chair, with his legs, wrapped in a
comforter, stretched out on another chair in front of him. He never so
much as said how-d'-ye-do? or anything; but at once, scowling at us,
asked in his gruffest voice, “Well, what do you want?”
I was so afraid and so abashed that I could hardly speak; but I did
contrive to point at Ripley, and gasp, “He--he'll tell you.”
“Well,” snapped Uncle Peter, turning to my spokesman, “go on. State your
business.”
“Well, sir,” began Rip--and O, me! as I listened to him, didn't my
wonder at his wisdom, and my admiration of his eloquence, mount up a
peg?--“well, sir, our business is very simple, and can be stated in
a very few words. The amount of it is simply this. My friend Gregory
Brace, being the only child of Edward Brace, deceased, who was a son of
your mother, Aurore Brace, deceased, is, equally with yourself, the heir
and next-of-kin of the said decedent, and would, in the event of her
having died intestate, divide share and share alike with you whatever
property she left. Now, sir, we have caused a search to be made in the
records of the Probate Court of this County, and we find that the said
decedent did in fact die intestate. It, therefore, became your duty to
petition for Letters of Administration upon her estate; to cite Gregory
Brace to show cause why such Letters should not be issued; to cause a
guardian _ad litem_ to be appointed to act for him in the proceedings;
to cause a permanent guardian to be appointed for him after the issuance
of said Letters; and then to apply the rents, profits, and income of
one undivided half of the estate of said decedent to his support,
maintenance and education, allowing what excess there might be to accrue
to his benefit. Well, sir, examination proves that you have performed
none of these duties; that you have illegally and without warrant
or authority possessed yourself of the whole of said estate, thereby
committing a fraud upon the said Gregory Brace, and violating the
statutes in such case made and provided. And now, sir, we have come here
to give you notice that it is our intention to put this matter at once
into the hands of an attorney, with directions that he proceed against
you, both criminally and civilly.” Uncle Peter heard Ripley through
without interrupting, though an ugly smile flickered about his lips.
When Rip had done, he lay back in his chair, and gave a loud harsh
laugh. Then he drew a long, mock-respectful face, and in a very dry,
sarcastic manner spoke as follows:--
“Why, my young friend, you talk like a book. And what profound and
varied knowledge of the law you do possess, to be sure! Why, I must
congratulate my nephew upon having found such an able and sagacious
advocate. And really, I cannot see the necessity of your calling in
the services of an attorney, for a person of your distinguished calibre
ought certainly to be equal to conducting this dual prosecution, both
civil and criminal, single-handed. My sakes alive!” he cried, with a
sudden change of tone and bearing. “Do you know what I've a great mind
to do with you and your client, my fine young fellow? I've a great mind
to cane you both within an inch of your precious lives, and send you
skulking away, with your tails between your legs, like two whipped
puppies. But, bless me, no! You're neither of you worth the trouble. So
I'll spare my rod, and spoil your fancy, by giving you a small measure
of information. Now, then, pray tell me, Mr. Advocate, what is your
valuation of the property which the 'said decedent' left?”
Ripley, nothing daunted, answered, “At least a hundred thousand
dollars.”
“At least a hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Uncle Peter; “well,
that's a pretty sum. Well, now, what would you say, my learned friend,
if I should tell you that she didn't leave a penny?”
“I should say it was very extraordinary, and that I couldn't believe it.
She was the widow of a wealthy man. She lived in good style. It stands
to reason that she couldn't have died penniless.”
“And so it does; it stands to reason, as you say; and yet penniless she
was when she died, and penniless she had been for ten years before; and
if she lived in good style, it was because I paid the bills; and if this
young cub, my nephew, wore good clothes and ate good dinners, it was
my charity he had to thank. Little by little, stick by stick, my mother
disposed of all the property her husband left her, selling the bulk of
it to me, and sending the proceeds to France, to help to reconstruct the
fortunes of her family there, who were ruined by the revolution. She
was a pauper when she died; and that's why I took out no Letters of
Administration--because there was nothing to administrate upon.
There, now I've told you more than I was under any obligation to; and
now, both of you, get out!”
“Come, Greg,” said Rip, “let's go.”
We went. Out of doors, I began, “Well, Rip”--
“Well, Greg,” Rip interrupted, “we've been on a fool's errand, a
wild-goose chase, and the less said about it the better.”
“And I--I'm not rich, after all?”
“That's what's the matter, Greg. If she didn't leave any property--you
see, we took it for granted that she did--why, there's nothing for you
to inherit. It's too bad, old fellow; but then, you're no worse off
than you were in the beginning. Anyhow, there's no use crying over spilt
milk. Come on; let's take the afternoon train to New York.”
So my fine castle in the air had fallen to pieces like a house of cards.
I tell you, it was a mighty crest-fallen young gentleman, in a very
humble frame of mind, who sat next to Arthur Ripley that afternoon in
the train that was speeding to New York.